As a way out of the morass of hurt feelings, embarrassing outbursts, and grand posturing in the recent reviewer-writer donnybrooks, take a look at what John Updike had to say in his six rules for book reviews. “[S]haped intaglio-fashion by youthful traumas at the receiving end of critical opinion,” they lay out a guide for civil, ethical, and useful criticism.

They insist first on fairness: “do not blame [the author] for not achieving what he did not attempt.” It would be unfair, for example, to criticize a pulp science fiction novel for failing to offer well-rounded characters, just as it would be unfair to criticize a literary short story for lacking tentacled aliens. Next, they insist on thoroughness and accuracy: let the book speak for itself, giving “enough direct quotation . . . of the book’s prose so the review’s reader can form his own impression, can get his own taste.” And finally, they demand that the reviewer exhibit humility: “[d]o not imagine yourself a caretaker of any tradition, an enforcer of any party standards, a warrior in any ideological battle, a corrections officer of any kind.”

These guidelines imply a contract between the reviewer and the writer, and between the reviewer and the reader (of the review, and potentially of the book). Between reviewer and writer, the contract stipulates a fair and accurate review, without an agenda that poisons the well. The book, not its author, should be the focus, and it should be assessed on its own terms. Between the reviewer and reader, the contract stipulates an accurate assessment of the book’s interest, and its success in its goals; by providing evidence in the form of direct quotation, the reader has the chance to sample the book, and to judge whether the review is accurate.

Things tend to break down when the review fails on one of Updike’s points. In the Alice Hoffman case, her legitimate complaint against Roberta Silman’s review is that Silman gives away too much of the story. This is a fair complaint in a review of a plot-driven novel, and it breaks the contract not only with the book but also with the reader.

As for Caleb Crain’s review of Alain de Botton’s “The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work,” the offense is subtler. On first glance, Crain appears to comply with Updike’s rules: he takes the book on its own terms, and provides ample quotation to make his points. And yet the review is scathing, and on occasion ad hominem: de Botton is accused of being superficial, mocking, and beset by class anxieties. It would appear that Crain has broken the fuzzy sixth rule that Updike proposes, “accept[ing] for review a book [he was] predisposed to dislike.” Crain appears to want a journalistic account with populist, or at least sympathetic, leanings, and that’s not what de Botton has delivered.

Updike’s rules offer very helpful guidelines for approaching the issue from the reviewer’s perspective. They are less helpful, though, for the writer faced with a negative review. When Updike published them in 1975, authors had fewer recourse to vent: no Twitter, no blogs, just the letters column in the offending publication, or space in a rival publication, and the postal service. (Unless, of course, you were Norman Mailer and could punch out your critics, or Proust and challenge them to a duel, but those seem well outside any guidelines for civil discourse.)

It is reasonable for writers to hold their critics to these rules; when a critic strays, the writer is well within her rights to say so. But it would be wise to keep that sixth rule in mind, which implies that all three parties have a contract with something larger than this review and this book: do nothing that will harm the “presumption of certain possible joys of reading,” and keep your vitriol aimed more at the review than the reviewer.